


Don't Remember. Just Breathe.

by Cherith



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherith/pseuds/Cherith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan and Norma both wake from disturbing nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Remember. Just Breathe.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dm21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dm21/gifts).



Ping.  
Drip. Drip. Drip.

 _Breathe: not too fast, not too deep._  
Blink. Breathe.

Drip.

It's too dark and the silence between each drop of water is maddening. He can feel his shoulders against the metal, box too small and too cold. Everything hurts, his head most of all. His lungs and his voice are all screamed out and he's long past the impulse to do so. No one is coming for him anyhow.

With his eyes closed--

__**Blink. Breathe.** Don't think about your hands.  
Don't move. Don't move. Don't move. Don't breathe.  
 **Breathe.**

\--he can almost ignore the cold, the water, the pain. He can almost forget that he's in the middle of nowhere in a box and that no one is coming to rescue him.

 _Why would they? **No.**_

There's holes in the box but there's never enough air. The cold burns his throat on the way down and his stomach churns on nothing but air. He's been hungry but never like this, never anything like this. 

With his eyes closed he can hear his mother's voice. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry.  
If there were tears left, he'd cry them for the sweetness in Norma's voice, the love, the devotion. He can believe her now when she sounds like that, when she sounds like she means it. 

He was wrong, there are tears left to shed.

 _ **Breathe.**_

He lifts his hands to his face to wipe away his tears, but there's blood on them. It's thick and slick between his fingers, the dark rust color distorted by shadow. And suddenly he's not in the box, but standing over it.

His lungs suck in a breath against his will, lungs battling his ribs for space and it burns--

"Dylan? Dylan." 

There's a pressure on his chest and he shrinks away from it, eyes blinking quick and wild to see his surroundings. Norma's there and she's staring down at him, blue eyes wide with fear? No, concern. It looks strange on her face while she's looking at him. The way her eyes follow him as he settles back into the sofa, the frown lines between her brows and the corners of her lips. It's strange. And it's not strange at all. 

"I could hear you all the way upstairs, struggling down here. What happened? Are you alright?"

Darkness flashes behind his eyes, and cold, a memory of a box in the ground. It wasn't his box, but he could feel it all around him. He struggled against it, let it wear him down, let it freeze him to the bone.

He pulls his hands into view: no blood. _A memory. No, a dream._

 

\----

 

Whoosh. Beep. Beep.

_**Breathe.** Don't look, just breathe._

Beep. 

Her eyes are closed but everything is still too bright. Somewhere beyond the brightness there's a cacophony of sound, footsteps and muffled voices, a steady, repeating beep, and the ever present soft whoosh of air. In and out, like a breath. It pauses then the air rushes in, pauses and sweeps out, it's too slow to be her own breath but it feels like it should be.

Something falls and it feels like her heart skips, like she's dreaming and the whole surface under her is just yanked away. She's drowning in nothingness, sucking in a breath that never fills her lungs.

 _ **Breathe.** Breathe. It's all going to be okay._

In the bright lights behind her eyes there's a face too blurry to make out, a baby, a boy. She can't reach him, so she doesn't try, and her eyes squeeze even tighter trying to block out the light.

It's like a metronome, the steady thrum in the air around her in time to the mechanical beeping and air exchange.

_In and out, just like breathing._

She can't bear to open her eyes, but her head pounds from the strain of holding them closed. Her hands hurt, knuckles aching in clenched fist. There's wood or metal against her palm, fingers closed tight around the shape like she might strike out with it. Maybe she will.

Maybe she'll feel better if she throws something. There's a scream stuck in her throat, it's been lodged there for longer than she can remember. Years, maybe. Or maybe she's always felt just on the edge of a scream, of a release. 

Beep. Beep. Whoosh.

_Just breathe. Everything will be alright._

Beep. Whoosh.  
Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Suddenly she can't breath. She's listening to the silence between each beep, waiting for the air to move, for the forced sound of air rushing in and out. She's listening for the beeps to speed up or slow down, or extend into a ringing pitch that gets stuck in her ears until the whole world goes quiet.

Whoosh. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeee--

The sounds goes on forever and her heart follows after it, beating faster and faster to keep up, to give in, to burst through her chest. She thrashes, hands giving up their claim on not wood or metal, but a soft quilt. She tosses it away anyway.

Her stocking feet are on the cold wood before she even thinks twice about it. Somewhere someone is screaming and for once, it's not her.

 

\----

 

"I'm fine, Norma," he lies.

"You're not fine, Dylan. You're shaking. You were screaming." Each word is careful, concerned and yet somehow he still hears anger in them. Sees them red as they cross the space from her lips to his ears. _It's Norma, she's always angry._

"It's fine." It's not, but Dylan's always been the tough one. There's a fault in that she knows lies with her, but neither of them is going to admit to that. She loves Dylan a little for that, for trying to be tough, to be grown, for still needing her and not saying so.

There's a long quiet that stretches between them. Dylan scoots back to give Norma space next to him and she fills it, like she owns it, like she always does. Neither of them looks at the other. 

Dylan breathes, Norma pushes the hair out of her eyes with a small flick.  
She folds her arms, he crosses his legs.  
He clears his throat.  
She lets out an exasperated breath. 

"Trouble sleeping," Norma says but her tone is flat. He thinks it might be a question.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

Norma reaches out and pats his arm without looking at him. A moment later she's on her feet and turning away from the sofa. 

"Come on," she says, voice fading into the kitchen, "I'll heat something up for you."

He sits, scrubs his palms over his face with a sigh. He blinks into the light of the kitchen in the distance as he gets up from the sofa. The blood is fading, just like his dream but he brushes past Norma and goes to the sink to wash them anyway.

She doesn't look up as he washes his hands, but as the water starts to run she smiles into the refrigerator. She's got both her boys under one roof. 

_It's going to be okay. We're all okay._

 

_Breathe. **Breathe.**_


End file.
